Fun With Dick and Cane Redux
by Verbal Kint10
Summary: A revised, and hopefully improved version of the summer 2008 story. Summary: House gets a patient who's more like him than he'd like to admit.
1. See Dick Dream

**Very Important Author's Note: Okie doke, so since I was bored, I'm taking some time to try and de-suckify my very first fic. Trust me, it wasn't easy. So here it is, cut down from 17 short chapters to 8ish longer ones that I'll be posting throughout the week. For those of you that have already read it (I think there's about 3 of you, so technically I'm not spamming), it is a lot different if you want to give it another go. If you've got any suggestions on further desuckifying this fic, feel free to send them over or even flame. Thanks, and sorry that this was so pitiful the first time around, haha.**

**-Verb**

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**See Dick Dream  
**

He dreamed about running.

No he didn't, but he wished he had. If he had, it would've been pathetic, spectacularly pathetic, the kind of pathetic that makes people adopt ugly cats and pity disturbed mass murderers. House welcomed the nostalgia of running only for the self-pity that tends to accompany it, kind of like a homeless guy passing his old house and remembering a time before his life went to shit. And that's why he wished he'd dreamt of running.

But House didn't dream of running, because to dream you actually have to sleep.

He officially gave up at 4a.m., after a light rain had come and gone, and the thunderous surround sound of "Die Hard" had smoldered into the muffles of paid programming. He reached a practiced arm over to the nightstand where it connected with his pills, as it had done countless times before. He took two and considered a third before deciding it was a little too early to wander into a narcotics fog. He then took the comforter and tossed it away from his right side. This was typically when he decided what type of day awaited him.

On a good day, he could make a joke—a really dirty one, the kind he'd tell Wilson right before he took a bite of his semi-exotic salad, and then he could walk off fast enough to not be bothered by the appalled looks of those at nearby lunch tables.

On an average day, he could make an excellent comeback, or the perfect, demeaning, often cleavage centric remark to piss off Cuddy. He wouldn't escape from the consequences, of course, but on the average day, he didn't really want to. He savored the lectures that followed and threats of clinic duty or rounds with opinionated elderly gentleman. After all, it was one less minute he thought about the pain.

On a bad day, he could yell. On bad days, his leg was a cloth drenched in gasoline, and every move brought it closer to ignition.

Today, somebody was holding a match. He reached over and grabbed a third Vicodin.

**----------------------------------------------**

It was 10:17 when he finally walked across the giant red maple leaf painted on the floor—shamble, was what he actually did.

Well…crawled, if one was being metaphorical.

In that case, he crawled into work at 10:17. He stopped halfway across the leaf to let his breath settle back into his lungs, wondering if it was actually a maple leaf and not some poor man's version of a bay leaf or a close relative. He winced and came to the conclusion that the lobby needed a people mover. Or a least a few more walls to lean on.

He caught the eye of Lisa Cuddy and immediately regretted it.

"Where the Hell have you been?!"

House would've preferred a "Good morning. Care for some Demerol, Dr. House?" but nonetheless, he ate the bait and threw back the hook.

"I spent the night in Paris….if you know what I mean." He crawled slightly faster in the direction of the elevators.

"Ah, so you're the one in the tape." This was another voice, slightly more caring and therefore slightly more annoying: Wilson the BFG (Best Friend Guy). "Funny, I thought Paris Hilton liked men who were actually attractive."

House opened his mouth to let out a beauty of a comeback (the kind involving generalizations about the entire Jewish race), when he tripped.

"Shit."

He growled slightly louder than accepted conversational tones, but quiet enough to secure a little hope that no one would be concern. This plan failed. Miserably, by the looks planted on Wilson and Cuddy, who were racing to his side.

And the funny thing is, House didn't trip because of his leg. This unfortunate situation arose from a bad business meeting between cane and floor—a floor hastily mopped by a custodian with a small attention span and an even smaller salary. That didn't mean that his leg didn't hurt enough to make him keel over, just that irony really liked to screw with House.

"Are you okay?"

He didn't even know which one said it; his eyes were shut tight, as if somehow that'd help him surf this particular tidal wave of pain. It didn't.

"House, are you okay?"

He still had no idea—they might as well have been the same person: Cilson, Wuddy, Carmen Electra. He just didn't know, and he couldn't think, so he decided to answer.

"Wilson forgot to clean my litter box," he half-groaned. "Just thought I'd remind you how needy I am."

Cuddy sighed, permitting a smile to peak out of her lips. House could make a joke and that meant he wasn't dead. And yet, House had made jokes before while plenty close to death. It was one of those scary thoughts that eased back only with more humor: the only reason House wasn't dead was because neither God nor Satan could put up with him. She gave House a hand to help him up. He gave it back, as usual.

He rolled over. "Plus, I wanted to see Cuddy bend over while trying to help me up."

It was now Wilson's turn to sigh. He held up a blue file. "Would a new case get you off the floor?"

"Depends. Is she hot?"

"Uh, I-I—"

"Is he hot?"

"I…guess."

House smiled, not unlike a creepy troll doll. Genuine smiles from the man tended to be a rarity.

Wilson mustered a few stutters before trying (in a semi-homophobic manner) to explain that he indeed preferred women to men. Needless to say, it wasn't quite convincing enough for the small lobby population. Giggles followed.

He shook cobwebs of embarrassment from his head. "House, trust me…you're gonna want to take this case."

There was curiosity there; House couldn't deny it. He wanted to breeze through the file, to get the team out of their Sudoku comas, to play hero in the righteous fight against microbes and fungal infections. But more than anything, he wanted a nap. And the power of the nap prevailed.

"Sorry Dr. Fruit, I've got work to do." He turned his back toward them as he got up, hiding his face and the grimace of pain surely visible there.

"Oh yeah, work," said Cuddy, "Like what?"

House made his way (this time, with considerably more care) over to the elevator. "Cameron wanted me to write her a letter of recommendation to the Scandinavian Women's Mud-Wrestling Team."

He stepped in and pressed the button. "So if anyone asks, she's Scandinavian…and a woman."

Neither Wilson nor Cuddy noticed the bits of blood on his palms from where his fingernails had tried in vain to offer a distraction.

The elevator doors closed.

House set his head against the walls and let out the groan that had been clawing its way out of his throat for the past five minutes. The floors passed, and House tried to compose himself—at least in a Housian sort of way. He wiped sweat off his forehead only to find it back again moments later. His wiped his palms against his jeans, hoping that the washer alone would remove the blood. He didn't own any Shout!. He fantasized about the black chair in the corner of his office as if it were a woman, a perfect, curvy Supernap woman who dished out mass quantities of Vicodin and back rubs to those in need, and raised the ottoman to the perfect height for a cripple who liked to stretch his legs. The coffee would be in one hand, his large tennis ball of indeterminate origins in the other. It would be like water on the fire, or at least like one of those portable extinguishers.

With a newfound raison d'être, he stepped out of the elevators, crawling a little faster now to his office, his chair, his ottoman, and his coffee.

That's when his pager went off.

The message almost took up the whole screen: "Emergency in Clinic. Need help." It was from Wilson's number.

House turned around, and got back in the elevator.

--------------------------------------------------

"Wilson's a bastard."

House prided himself in the fact he had made it to the clinic without making his obvious discomfort quite so obvious. Nurse Brenda, who was the current recipient of such whining, didn't want to listen to House's screwed up observations of the human condition, similar to the way a mall Santa doesn't want to be peed on. But you can't always get what you want.

House continued, "I get a page: 'Emergency.' I'm down here: No emergency, now why do you think that is?"

Brenda was almost sad she didn't get to retort. Dr. Cuddy was there to save the day. "Because he wants you to do your job."

"It's not his job to ensure I'm doing my job. If I recall, that's _your _job. Tricking me into coming down to the clinic while innocent children in Africa are dying, however, is not your job."

She was losing patience. "Sure House, because everyone knows starving children die slower if you're playing with a damn yo-yo."

The glass door slammed, breaking the slight tension that filled the room while House thought of his next verbal blow. Wilson smiled sheepishly at his intrusion. "Has anyone seen my pager?"

House gladly ratted Cuddy out, sitting on the counter of the nurses' station in an attempt to take the tax off his leg. "Cuddy has it. She's apparently not aware that phone sex isn't as appealing on devices smaller than a lighter."

Cuddy knew the only way to regain control of the situation, and she used it. "I paged you because you have a case House, and because it'll be a cold day in Hell before you actually do something I ask, I used Wilson's pager. Patient's been waiting for an hour, complaining of severe pain in his left thigh. He's a 47 year old male, 5'10,'' 260lbs…"

Only, House didn't hear any of this, at least not above a low drone in the back of his mind. He was scanning the waiting area, looking for something different in the endless cluster of middle-aged men with the sniffles and kids with broken toes playing Gameboy, looking for something interesting.

He found it.

Sitting to the left of the water cooler was a man—mid to late twenties—who was sweating. But it wasn't the sweating that interested him. It was the fact that every time someone passed this guy, he immediately grabbed his right leg at the side of his knee, protecting it from the potential danger of each passerby, as if even the vibrations in the ground hurt him. It was a reflexive action, something the guy had obviously been doing for a while. In his eyes, while not as interesting, was something still different, still unusual, but very familiar to House: Suffering.

"House."

Over the years, the duties of House's conscience had dwindled down to the measly task of reminding him to stop staring. For once, he listened.

"House!"

Ah, there it was, Cuddy's grating voice along side of his ear. He looked up to where she and Wilson were standing, finding Foreman and Kutner there, too. Cuddy spoke again, "He's in exam room 1."

House opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Kutner. "Whoa, Dr. House, you're really pale."

"I got a part-time job as a vampire. Don't get too close."

Cuddy inadvertently saved him by changing the subject once more. "Oh, and House…he's a big donor."

"I'll take him, boss lady. Foreman, you take exam room 2." He pointed towards the man by the water cooler. "Take Gimpy over there with you."

As he started over towards exam room 1, Wilson put a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?" It was a typical remark from the BFG.

House shook the hand off, and waved awkwardly towards the ceiling. He dispensed with the sarcasm as he lied, "Yeah, the lighting makes everyone look pale in here. I'm fine." He walked away.

"Could've fooled me," Wilson yelled as House shut the exam room door.

House could've fooled himself too.


	2. See Dick Chat

**See Dick Chat**

"Hello, my name is Dr. House. What seems to be the—Holy Hell!"

House hadn't meant to react quite so strongly, but such a thing was easier said than done as he was greeted by the splayed man ass on the table.

"I'm having some tingling on my rear," said the ass's mouth, who was the patient.

House surveyed the man up and…down. Mental projections of beached whales plagued his thought process, though he couldn't quite put a stubby, bloated finger on why that was.

The mouth continued, "It's going down into my leg too, and it hurts. I was on a plane recently, do you think maybe I have one of those blood clot thingies?"

"An infarction thingy? Oh no, you're in way much pain for it to be an infarction."

"Oh good. That's what I thought."

House popped the lid off his pills, put two in his mouth, and swallowed.

The larger mouth spoke again. "What's that?"

"Vicodin. But it's probably too weak for a man in your amount of discomfort. When did this pain start?"

"About two days ago, on the plane."

House clicked his tongue against his two front teeth.

"The plane ticket, did you pay for it with a credit card?"

"Yeah."

"Been having money woes lately?"

"Why would I—"

"I don't know, maybe you think paying bills is for squares. I'm guessing you have quite the credit card collection then?"

House nodded his head toward the door in order to obscurely non-verbalize that the ass should get up. Fifteen seconds later, the ass complied with a nervous laugh and a confused wince. House shuffled over to the table and flopped down, resting his head on his hands.

"Well, yeah I have a lot of cards, but—"

"It's called Creditcarditis, and no, I didn't make it up. Your wallet's too thick from lack of cash and too many credit cards. Ironic, isn't it?"

House swung his cane over to the nearby countertop, sliding the glass container of lollypops (which typically was filled with cotton balls, or tongue depressors, or other remotely useful things) dangerously close to the edge before gambling a reach into it. He pulled out a red lollypop and began the arduous task of unwrapping it.

"Anyway, it's cutting off blood flow to your leg. Take your wallet out of your back pocket—get a purse, you'll be fine. I'd also recommend selling your children on the black market, save a buttload of trouble before they start getting STDs, plus you get back some of your money. Have a good day."

He was out of the room before he said that last sentence, not that he intended to say it anyway. He smirked at the unintentional genius of his word choice. After all, he had just used "buttload" in a case about butts.

He proceeded to exam room two to exercise his curiosity.

"Hello, my name is Dr. House, wha—"

"He's just got the flu, House. Why'd you ask me to bring him back here?" said Foreman's voice in a semi-accusatory manner. Foreman's body was sitting next to the patient, who seemed as disinterested in being treated as Foreman seemed about treating him.

"Because I care, Foreman. It's what I do. Now, Mr. Quicks—"

"It's Mix," the patient corrected.

House gestured towards the forearm crutch in the guy's left hand, "Can't say I'm surprised—Quicks is a pretty silly name for a cripple, isn't it?"

An easy smile tugged at the guy's mouth. "Call me Tom."

"Okay. Now, Mr. Quicks, what brings you in here today?"

Tom cleared his throat, looking a little embarrassed. "I threw up at work. Boss made me come in."

House took a step toward Tom, looking him up and down like a critic of fine art. "Are you having a bad day?"

Foreman, who had restrained himself to a scowl thus far in the conversation, spoke up. "There's a waiting room full of patients, and for once in your career you're asking a patient how his day's going? What does that have to do with—"

House interrupted the interruption. "Pain-wise. Are you having a bad day?"

Tom responded with a quick "no."

"What? What do you mean, House?" For a board-certified specialist, Foreman wasn't always the best at keeping up.

"Mr. Quicks has RSD. Right?" he said, looking to Tom.

Tom nodded, not quite sure as to how the doctor had guessed.

"Nice history, Foreman. What, were you two in here debating the validity of Angelina Jolie's boobs?

Tom smiled sheepishly. "I think they're real."

"Wow," said House, "a naïve cripple. That's rare." House shuffled by Foreman slowly, stretching his legs, one of which was rapidly losing patience with the situation. "So Quicks, you're sure you're not having a bad day today?"

"I'd ask you the same thing."

House stopped. An awed smile crawled onto his face as he stared back at Tom, who looked quite confident in his remark. House squinted. Tom's assertion, while halting, was at its core nothing more than the simple math of cane plus frown. It was not an amazing feat of observational skill, merely an instinct of those in chronic pain.

Foreman, ever the outsider, intervened in this stare-down. "House, what does RSD have to do with his—"

"Symptoms?" House was relieved by the change of subject. "Because, Mr. 'neurologist' if you'd have gone to medical school you'd know that RSD stands for Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy. It's a chronic pain condition, the worst there is, actually," he said, glancing back at Tom. "We're talking pain that rates above a forty on the McGill Pain Index. That's worse than cancer pain, amputation, and childbirth, which is pretty painful; I would know."

The two other men stared at him for at least 15 seconds.

"No, I wouldn't. But Wilson would know. Anyway, you're in that amount of pain on a daily basis, and a little nausea is the least of your worries."

Foreman wasn't really convinced. "But he's sweating. That's flu-like."

"I'm sweating. Symptomatic of waking up on the wrong side of the bed—the 'help I've fallen and can't get up' side."

"Excuse me?" This amount of arguing over a little puke kind of weirded Tom out. It was like arguing over urine color or the consistency of shit, in that it only made him more nauseous.

Both doctors ignored him. Foreman pressed on, "House, it's either pain or the flu. Both ordinary, both non life-threatening. The only difference is that if it's the flu, he gets to go home and miss work, but if it's because he's having a bad pain day, you're going to admit him, run a lot of dangerous, invasive, and expensive tests because you have a morbid curiosity with how well-adjusted people handle pain!"

Tom tried again. "Guys, I said I wasn't having a bad day. I'm just a little queasy."

House rubbed the back of his thumb against his forehead, picking up a few stray beats of sweat in the process. He looked to Foreman, then back to Tom.

"Fine Quicks, take some Pepto-Bismol and Sudafed; you'll be fine in a few days."

Tom grabbed his crutch and slowly stood up. "Thanks," he said, reaching to shake Foreman's hand.

He missed.

A stupid handshake, something he did on a daily basis, and he missed. Yet, it is in the nature of embarrassment that we try again, which is exactly what Tom Mix did.

And he missed again.

House's brow furrowed, as the twinkle in his eyes made its first appearance of the day. "Foreman, admit Mr. Quicks. We're gonna run some dangerous, invasive, and expensive tests."

---------------------------------------------------

House had his head down on the conference table when Thirteen entered the room. His white knuckles clung to the side of his chair to indicate that he was very much awake. She closed the door with a _klunk_ so he'd have a chance to react to her intrusion.

He sat up suddenly in a well-rehearsed ruse of "waking." He proceeded to sell it like a famed stage actor, taking his time with yawns and woozy blinks. He looked back at Thirteen dully.

"What?" he said, with all the patience he could muster.

"Uh," she started, flustered by the surplus of harshness in his voice after momentarily forgetting who she was dealing with, "Patient's in MRI with Taub and Kutner."

House put his head back down on the table. "I hope they aren't claustrophobic. That MRI machine is a _pretty_ tight squeeze."

He heard the ring of bells from Cuddy's new, incredibly unwise earrings before he heard the clap of her prized dagger heels. Then sound grew louder, more authoritative, somehow, but House didn't bother trying to hide. She was seconds away by now and he wasn't exactly in a quick getaway mood. He closed his eyes and waited.

"House!"

He raised his head off the table with the weakness of an eighty year-old. The act didn't go unnoticed by Thirteen or Cuddy. "Yes, Satan?"

"House, you cannot, and let me make this very clear, CANNOT put 'Out Of Order' signs on exam rooms. If a patient were to—"

"Were to what? Have a headache? Oh, poor them!"

Any humor that should've been there gave way to bitterness, and Cuddy didn't bother responding. She wasn't quite sure which annoyed her more: when House told nobody his leg was out for blood, or when he told people like this.

But what annoyed her most of all was how guilty she felt about all of it. Not just about not noticing this sooner, but about every bad thing that's happened in the past ten years. The feeling alone was infuriating, a paper cut on her tongue every time she thought about it. Because deep down, this was just as much her fault as it was Stacy's. She wanted to play Frankenstein, and now she got to deal with the monster. And because of this, he got stalled halfway towards normal and she hit pause until she forgave herself. Somewhere along the way, neither one thought to hit restart, end of story.

And she never let herself forget it.

She sighed. "Never mind. I'll blame it on the janitor I was planning on firing."

She turned to leave, when House blurted out, "You liar."

"What?" Cuddy stopped short, afraid that her caring had been mistaken for pity, and maybe pity was what it was.

"Fat dude, no way in Hell that guy is a donor."

Cuddy let a relieved smile pass her lips as she said, "Got you to take the case, didn't it?" She let her shoes pick up some speed on the way to the door. "And it got you to stop pulling childish pranks!"

And then she was gone, and all that was left to distract House from the pain was thinking, and all he was thinking about was the pain.

House handled pain the way some people handle sexually transmitted diseases. It was a secret, a dirty, dirty secret. It was embarrassing. It showed weakness, lack of control, and ability to be controlled. And sooner or later, pain, like sexually transmitted diseases, just has to be shared with others.

Luckily, House was a firm believer in the emotional condom. In fact, he used one every day. This particular condom however, wasn't protecting the world from some awkward commercials and burning trousers. It protected House from the world, and the world from the House he didn't want people to see.

He looked up to notice Thirteen had gone. She'd taken his intense stare at nothing in particular as her cue to leave.

House sat up, thinking about Foreman's labeling of pain and the flu as non-life threatening. 36,000 people die every year from the flu. Last year, 3,230 people died of shock as a direct result of extreme pain.

Foreman was wrong.

**---------------------------------------------------**

"Hey Taub, knock knock."

Taub gave an exasperated knuckle crack. "Who's there?" he sighed.

"Interrupting cow." Kutner smiled in anticipation.

"Interrupting cow wh—"

" MOOOOOOOO!"

Taub nearly fell out of his seat, not that the fall would be a long one. "Can we please focus on the MRI here?"

Kutner snorted, "Hey man, you were the one who answered the door."

A silence fell on the room. It was bordering on awkward for Kutner, but for Taub, it was a welcome visitor.

The visitor didn't stay very long.

"Hey, " started Kutner, "you think House is okay?"

"I'm sure he's just peachy," said Taub, squinting his eyes at the monitor. "Unless you're talking about his mental status, which is perpetually set at 'batshit.' Why do you ask?"

"I dunno, he just seems sort of out of it today."

Taub didn't pretend to be a genius on the human condition, and he didn't have to. One conversation warranted you'd know a bit more about yourself by the time he left the room. That, or you'd know enough to hate him. One thing he lacked any genius about, however, was the awe-inspiring rarity that was House. He still liked to think he knew more about House than the average employee, though. "It's cold outside. His leg's probably bugging him."

"His leg?" Kutner seemed a little puzzled. He had a sort of innocence about him that Taub admired and found annoying at the same time. He was naïve when it suited him, but slightly brilliant when it suited everyone else. "He didn't say anything about it."

Taub began cracking his knuckles again. "Kutner, I don't know if you've noticed this, but Dr. House isn't the sort of guy who says, 'my leg hurts real bad, Dr. Kutner. Give me a hug.'"

Another silence rolled over them. This time, both doctors found it awkward.

Kutner though, was quick to dissolve it. "Knock knock," he whispered.

This time it was Thirteen who answered the door. The door to the MRI room, that is, not the door into Kutner's joke, which stored cows and God knows what else.

"House wants us all in his office for the differential."

"But what about the MRI?" asked Taub.

"We'll get the results back afterwards," she assured him.

"No, I'm mean who's gonna watch the patient?"

"Grab a nurse or something."

Some people sigh to show exasperation. Others roll their eyes. Others simply say, "I'm exasperated." Taub cracked his knuckles, and at this rate, he'd have swollen ape hands before lunchtime.

"House doesn't trust nurses to hand him surgical tools. You really think he'd let one come in here and watch a patient?"

Thirteen clicked her tongue a few times before coming up with an answer. "Call Wilson. He'll do anything for House."

Taub obediently picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Wilson's extension. Kutner pushed the talk button on the microphone that connected the observation room to the painfully larger room in which the MRI machine was held. "Hey Tom?" he said, waking the patient from a light sleep—the kind where you don't care about the movie you're watching, but if people were to start writing on you with Sharpies, you'd be awake enough to fight them off.

"Yeah?" he answered, startled by the intensity of the noise around him.

Kutner continued, "Dr. Taub and I are going to review your case with Dr. House, but another doctor will be in here in just a few minutes."

"Okay, thanks," replied Tom, as if saying something would make a difference.

Kutner pressed the talk button once more to turn it off. Turning the microphone off had proven problematic for Kutner in the past. The results of this could be pretty embarrassing.

Taub hung up the phone. "Wilson's on his way."

Taub and Kutner grabbed their respective belongings and joined Thirteen by the door. The stood by the door to wait for Wilson, savoring their House-free moments like the last velvety bites of a chocolate bar.


	3. See Spot SStutter

**See Spot St-stutter**

There's a common misconception about pain. It's probably the lovechild of bad Youtube videos and Kung Fu demonstrations, but who knows—all that matters is it exists.

Because a normal person would tell you that pain is just a one-time deal. Stationary, not outside the level of pain you experience at that exact moment. A guy who broke his arm a year ago can tell you that it hurts, tell you it's the worst pain he's ever felt, but he can't go there in his mind, because it's simply impossible to recreate a pain you've only felt once. You have to be feeling it to know that it's there, and that this sort of hurt exists.

Because the truth of the matter is that pain is not a fixed noun lumped into analogies of paper cuts and broken bones. It's a manic jazz musician with a knack for ill-timed improvisation. It's a murderous gourmet chef drizzling arsenic on your plate. It's an envious maid who strips your house of valuables and memories. It's the dance partner from Hell, and it takes the lead whenever it can. It is everything wrong with the world and every reason you want to rid the world of it.

It kills you.

While you watch.

Of course, this may not be common knowledge. It was for a man named Thomas Mix, but as he stared up at the ceiling in his hospital gown counting tiles and fluorescent light fixtures, he wasn't thinking about this.

This was also common knowledge for Gregory House, but he wasn't thinking about it either.

Because it's hard to think about pain when it's sucking the life out of you.

He regretted calling in his team. They would be there any minute though, and they would find him like this, breathing like a fat kid playing tag and white as a piece of paper. He felt his heart rate increase steadily from maybe 150 to 160, then 160 to 170. He swore he could hear it thumping.

He shook out two Vicodin, put them in his mouth, and started chewing. It was the express delivery system, old fashioned, but effective. He grabbed a water bottle to the left of him and took a sip to wash the taste out of his mouth.

After 5 more minutes he was getting better. After 7 minutes he could stand, and thirty seconds later he was at the whiteboard. This was a temporary solution, he knew, but to be fair, every time a pill hit his throat, it was just temporary.

His ear itched, which was a good sign. It meant he could think again.

He wrote "Dead Man Limping" on the whiteboard, proving not only that irony liked to screw with House, but that House liked to screw with irony.

At that exact second, Kutner, Taub, and Thirteen walked through the door. Life's funny that way.

"Alright," said House, placing a heavily-weighted hand on the whiteboard, "first person to come up with a diagnosis for nausea and disorientation gets fifty bucks."

Kutner didn't wait for House to finish his sentence before chiming in with "Acute intermittent porphyria."

"That's fifty bucks…reduced from your salary. Anyone else?"

"Wait," said Kutner, never one to go down without a fight, "if he ate something weird and threw up, that explains the nausea. Then if he didn't eat anything else, he'd probably get dizzy. Anyone would."

House was deliberating whether he would humor Kutner with a reason why his idea was stupid, or just tell him his idea was stupid. He went with the former, but it was a tough call. "Anyone would. And then that 'Anyone' would be severely anemic. Our 'Anyone,' on the other hand is not, and just for that, I'm taking fifty more dollars."

He turned and looked at the other three doctors in the room. "So, any other ideas on what's killing Verbal Kint?"

Kutner raised his hand before answering. He did that frequently, and nobody really knew why. "I thought our patient had RSD."

House wiped his face with his hand. "See, the thing is, that's already been diagnosed."

Kutner frowned. "No, I mean Verbal Kint had cerebral palsy."

A loud groan rolled through the room. Nobody knew whose it was…because everyone had been loudly groaning.

Taub was the first to forget Kutner's…observation. "What about ACTH deficiency? If the disorientation is accompanied by muscle weakness, then the nausea and vomiting—"

"Are all connected," House finished. He squinted at the whiteboard and looked back at Taub. "I like it," he said, and proceeded to write it down. Then he pointed at Taub. "Fifty bucks to Agent Kujan."

"What about MS?" said a voice from the back of the room.

"Ah, Keyser Soze. How nice of you to join our little discussion." House smirked, "Just curious, Foreman—have you ever _not_ thought it was MS?"

"When it doesn't fit. And in this case, it does," said Foreman, unflinching. "He's not running a fever, and the throwing up probably comes from his disorientation."

House narrowed his eyes back at the whiteboard. "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."

He grinned with misplaced pride and pointed to Kutner. "I have to admit, it's better than Hockney's idea over there." He wrote 'MS' on the board.

Kutner interjected immediately. "Wait a minute, why do I have to be Hockney? I want to be Mcmanus or at least Fenster."

"Could we get back to the case instead of making references to movies that maybe three people have seen?" said another voice.

In the last thirty seconds Kutner's demeanor had gone from eager to ashamed to shocked. Needless to say, those thirty seconds were dangerously close to humorous.

And so he turned to Thirteen, the source of that voice, with his mouth agape. "You've never seen 'The Usual Suspects'?"

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"I—" she started, not quite able to find words that were biting enough to properly articulate her current exasperation.

House had more experience in such things. "She stands up for disabled people, unlike you sickos who make them into entertainment."

Thirteen continued to look mildly agitated, Kutner looked mildly guilty, and Taub look mildly thoughtful. Foreman looked like he didn't give a damn, and he didn't.

"Thirteen," said House, "seeing as you're so keen on reaching a diagnosis, let's hear your opinion…lacking in pop culture reference as it is."

She tugged on her ear as if waiting for the answer from some guy with a walkie-talkie down the hall. "Acetaminophen toxicity."

House made a noise similar to obnoxious microphone feedback. It took the team a second to realize it was a laugh. "Cripple on Vicodin. I like it."

He rested his hand on the whiteboard, trusting it with the weight of his right leg, and wrote 'Acetaminophen OD.'

"Alrighty," he mumbled, "Foreman, do an LP for infection and your beloved MS. Thirteen, run a tox screen for large doses of acetaminophen. Kutner and Taub, pump him full of B12 in case it's an ACTH deficiency."

Foreman, Thirteen, and Taub were already out the door, but Kutner remained in the room, standing awkwardly next to his chair with a dopey, Charlie Brown posture.

House glanced at him bemusedly. "See, that was when you were supposed to leave."

"Dr. House, I want—"

"To save the pilot whales. It's okay, you can do that from outside of this room."

Kutner opened his mouth to say something, but turned around and walked out instead.

House wanted to sit down, to steal that nap, Hell, to find Ingrid and beg for a massage and some nookie, but House didn't do those things.

Instead, he put his legs up on the table and kept an eye on the clock. Half hour—that's how long it would all take.

In a half hour, Gregory House would get up, walk out of his office, walk down the hallway, and visit a patient.

-------------------------------------------------------

Wilson counted the tiles from his office to radiology. It was a habit, one he neither mentioned nor remembered having five minutes after the fact. Odd, because it'd come in handy while giving directions to the bathroom.

There were 342 tiles, and the little half tile that he placed his toes on before he opened the door to the tiny observation room that stood about a foot above the main room.

There were three Hershey's Kisses in his pocket when he got there. By the time the rhythmic droning of the MRI had finally given way to silence, the Kisses were gone and in their place was a miniature chain of aluminum foil.

He put a finger on the push-to-talk button, glancing down at the file so he could use the patient's name. "Hang tight, Thomas. I'm gonna come get you out of there."

He walked back out into the hallway and found a wheelchair. Tom was sitting up outside the MRI when Wilson stepped in. The patient looked at the wheelchair and said, "I'm not taking that from someone else, am I?"

"Uh, no," said Wilson, unable to hide the surprise in his voice, but his tour guide charm was soon present. "Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson, " he said with a practiced grin.

Meanwhile, Tom's eyes fixed on Wilson's small, rectangular nametag, which read 'Dr. James Wilson, M.D. Head of Oncology.' His voice shook very slightly as he asked, "Do I have cancer?"

It took Wilson a second to realize what Tom was talking about, but as he saw the kid's hollowed stare at the badge on his chest, he jumped on the question like a dog on Christmas ham. "Oh no, no. I mean, well, no. That's not why I'm here. I'm—uh I, we have no reason to—"

Wilson had supposedly gotten over his stuttering problem in the fifth grade. But stuttering, like genital herpes, always seemed to pop up where he didn't want it. Not that Wilson had genital herpes, mind you, just that both situations are pretty inconvenient.

He took a deep breath and started over. "Dr. Taub and Dr. Kutner went to review your case with Dr. House. I'm just here to take you back to your room."

The piquancy returned to Tom's eyes upon hearing this. "Well, as long as I get to keep my hair."

Wilson smiled too. He was an oncologist—pitiful smiles came easily.

House was gonna hate this guy.

Wilson held the wheelchair on the side of the machine while Tom scooted into it.

"Dr. House, he's really amazing, isn't he?" said Tom.

The words were enough to make Wilson freeze up in shock.

There was a low, guttural vowel sound as Wilson decided what to say next. "Well…I've never heard it put like that _before_ he solves a case, but…" Wilson gave a little shrug showing his concurrence "yeah I guess he is."

"You don't like him?"

Wilson shook his head and laughed. "No, no. Actually, he's my friend."

Tom spoke in one word sentences while meandering his way across the table and into the chair. "His. Best. Friend?"

Wilson folded his arms. "Yeah, I think so."

Tom was about three inches away from the chair when his gown got caught on the bar of the chair, raising it a bit higher and revealing several long and thick scars that stretched from his upper ankle to the lower part of his knee on both sides of his right leg.

Wilson's eyes zeroed in on the scars instinctively. After all, he had doctor's eyes. Tom grabbed his gown and covered his leg up quickly, like a preteen girl in a locker room.

Wilson's eyes fell apologetically. He thought about saying something, wanted to, but what was there to say? Estranged family members, morbidly obese McDonald's employees, ragged, ugly scars—these were the things you didn't talk about.

Only, Wilson did say something. He saw those scars and told Tom, "You should see Dr. House's scar."

What an incredibly stupid thing to say.

He wanted to explain why he'd said that if he could, but didn't want to open his mouth for fear of another stuttering fit. Even if he could talk, what the Hell was one supposed to say after throwing a gem like that into supposedly meaningless small talk?

Sure, it wasn't a _secret_ secret—not like the ones you take to your grave. It wasn't a secret like House's fear of horses, suicide attempts, or stints with illicit drugs. It wasn't a secret like finding House with a track of tears on his cheek two days after Stacey left. People knew why House never wore shorts. It was common knowledge. It was just a scar.

That's what Wilson kept telling himself. Tom nodded in acknowledgment of the information he had just received, and he couldn't help feeling like he'd let a little bit of House go away with a stranger.

Wilson began pushing Tom through the door as pains of regret began to nudge at his neck and shoulders. Tom turned to look up at him.

"How'd he get the scar?" he asked, tentatively.

Wilson looked the patient in the eyes like he was sizing him up for a fight.

Wilson wanted so badly to keep his mouth shut.

But this guy wasn't some dumb nurse who was going to tell everyone with a name and a nose House's story. Hell, it'd probably never come up again. This guy just wanted to know that he wasn't alone, that there was somebody like him…even if that somebody was not like him at all.

He'd keep it short, for his own sake. Wilson didn't want to tell Tom about the cardiac arrest, Stacey's cunning plan, or Cuddy's follow through with that cunning plan, because those were the parts of House that belonged to him now. He had seen him through it, and as far as he was concerned, those moments were a part of James Wilson's life just as much as they were part of Gregory House's.

"He, uh, had an infarction in his leg, and it didn't get diagnosed until it'd done a lot of damage."

Tom knew that wasn't the whole story, and he was fine with that. It was still something. He looked down and didn't ask any more questions.

Wilson didn't count tiles on the way back.


	4. See Dick Care

**See Dick Care**

House slid the glass door closed behind him. He was now in room 109, Tom Mix's room. Tom Mix was snoring.

"What's up, Quicks?"

Tom stirred slightly, but remained asleep as House repeated himself.

"What's up, Quicks?"

No answer.

House sighed and hobbled over to Tom's bed where he proceeded to hit the metal railing with his cane. This time, he found, he had Tom's strict attention.

"What's up, Quicks?" The question had lost the zest of its first use. Tom, however, didn't seem to mind.

"Why are you in here?" he asked groggily.

"To say hi," said House through a plastic grin.

Tom rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. "No, I mean I thought you hate talking to patients, so why are you in here?"

"Wilson said we looked alike, so I figured I'd prove once and for all that I'm way hotter by comparison."

This deflection was…deflected by Tom's own comedic shield, one that was currently stronger than House's. "Wilson's your best friend, right?"

Crap.

This meant Wilson had been talking to House's patient. And not just talking—_talking_ talking—the kind of talking where Wilson shared insights on House's less charming qualities in the hopes of bringing more numbers to the cause. The cause, of course, being to get House more than one friend. Luckily, Wilson was about as bad at unprompted insights as therapists with a fondness for their own voices.

"Okay, here's how this typically goes. I ask you about any recent dangerous, possibly life-threatening activities. You lie, but sooner or later the truth spawns from the ashes of those lies and you admit to participating in those dangerous, possibly life-threatening actives, and using that information, I save your life. Sound like a plan?"

Tom blinked. "I threw up…It may have been after I climbed Mt. Everest without an oxygen tank, drank a gallon of bleach, and had unprotected sex with sixty prostitutes…but I don't remember on account of being an alcoholic."

Ah yes, not even the posterchild of crippledom was immune from House's 'charm.'

"Gosh, no need to get sarcastic," said House with a smirk as he threw two pills in his mouth.

"That's Vicodin," stated Tom.

"Yeah. Want one, or six?"

"No, thanks." The apologetic tone was back in Tom's voice.

"Did one of my lackeys put you on morphine?"

"No. Why?"

House seemed puzzled. "Well, what are you taking?"

"Um, Gabapentin. Does this have something to do with—"

"You're an RSD patient," House grabbed a chair and sat down, continuing, "and you're telling me all you take is Gabapentin?"

Tom narrowed his eyes, seeing the checkpoint of this conversation. "With all due respect, Dr. House, not all pain patients are addicts looking for a fix."

"Clearly." House put the pill bottle back in his coat pocket.

"Uh," Tom said, not sure he should proceed with the next part, "Dr. Wilson told me about your problem with…that."

Which, of course, he didn't.

"Yeah, I'm sure he did," House whispered. "Now, on to all that important medical stuff…"

House picked up Tom's chart and began reading his history, keeping his eyes averted from his patient. Tom understood. After all, talking was only entertaining under the right circumstances. He imagined that for a guy like House, those circumstances were wrong more often than not. Like right now.

"So, let's see, appendicitis at age 12, bronchitis, ear infection…" House half mumbled bits of childhood illnesses and run-of-the-mill bumps and bruises until he reached something that interested him. Tom already knew what it was.

House let his voice carry a bit more, as if to make sure Tom was listening. "Age 22, spiral fractures of the right tib and fib. How'd you manage that?"

Tom cleared his throat. "Golfing."

House's eyes darkened, and he elaborated. "Well, I was hit by a golf cart. Some stupid kids driving it I guess." He smiled awkwardly.

House began to wonder just how much Wilson had told him.

He read on, "Two days after that you had a fasciotomy for compartment syndrome." House whistled, "Bet that left a gnarly scar."

"Yeah," said Tom grimly.

"Can I see it?"

"Only if I can see yours."

This was the second time today Tom said something that caught his doctor off guard. He tilted his head, ready for a stare-down, when he lost any desire for one. It didn't matter to him whether this kid thought he was a badass. He glanced at the floor in a look somewhat resembling defeat…somewhat.

"Nevermind," he muttered.

Tom knew him too well, and it scared House. A lot. And what scared him more was how little House knew about Tom. He was used to reading people like instruction manuals. With this guy though, House couldn't tell if he was seeing the summary on the back cover, or the whole text. Or worse, whether Wilson had told Tom things like this, or if the punk had figured them out for himself.

And despite all of this, House couldn't bring himself to leave the room.

He coughed, allowing the tension to be directed at Tom. "After the surgery, your pain never subsided, your leg became cold, blueish, swollen…yep, well that definitely sounds like RSD, doesn't it?"

It was now Tom's turn to look down. "Four doctors didn't think so. Took me a year to get diagnosed. They said it was all in my head, and after a while, I started to believe them. I mean, I guess technically they were right, but you can't just 'imagine' that kind of pain, and…I was right." He told his story like a war veteran recalling the loss of a close friend, adding pauses and dropping his voice as necessary. In a way, it was fitting.

He gave an insincere chuckle. "Funny, isn't it? I spend six months going from specialist to specialist for something you diagnosed me with in 30 seconds at a walk-in clinic."

House shrugged. "Specialists are idiots." He eyed the monitor. Tom's temperature was 102 and starting to rise. MS didn't do that.

He didn't mention it. "And when did you start taking the Gabapentin?"

Tom thought a minute, "about a week after I got diagnosed, so four years ago."

Again, House seemed incredulous. "Does it work for you?"

"No," he said honestly.

House shook his head. "Idiot. There's a hundred different kinds of pain meds out there."

"And none of them are going to work."

"Well how would you know, you haven't tried them, you haven't worked out combinations, you—"

"You wouldn't know either, Dr. House. All you have is Vicodin."

House's right thigh began to twinge, but he defended himself out of habit. "That's because it works for me."

Tom calmed down slightly. He had a killer's patience with the personality of a hamster, and House didn't quite understand why.

Tom gave him a hard stare. "But it doesn't work, does it? You use painkillers like an alcoholic uses booze. Vicodin's just your emotional crutch for stuff you don't want to deal with. It barely takes the edge off your leg."

It didn't occur to House that with this guy, the skills in observation worked both ways. He was being read at the same time he was trying to read, and for reasons he'd soon ponder over for another sleepless night, his instruction manual was currently easier to read.

"Okay," said House, "so if none of them work, then why not pick Vicodin? Why pick the one drug that doesn't do anything at all?"

Tom paused for a moment, as if the answer was just coming to him, though it obviously wasn't. "Because I don't need it. I don't need an emotional crutch to be happy."

House leered, "you're a happy…cripple?" In a stampede of career-born instincts, the medical conjectures started pouring in. _Euphoria. Is that a symptom? No, no this isn't euphoria; this is just contentment, happiness. That's not a symptom…unless whatever he's happy about causes him harm. But happiness about life? Life's not a disease….yet. Shit, shit, shit, this isn't making sense._

House's thoughts were interrupted by a beep on Tom's monitor. Tom's heart rate had increased, though not by enough to induce a care by Gregory House.

Tom put a hand over his knee. This was the kind of pain that made Marines cry, and yet he kept staring at House. This accounted for the change in heart rate. "Yeah. I'm happy."

House scratched his temple as his pain ran up a couple notches as well. "Any particular reason for that?" He stood up to stretch his leg.

"It's a basic human emotion. Do I need a reason to feel it?"

House took a step and found that his leg was not there. It was there physically, of course, as it's rather hard to misplace a limb while sitting down, but as soon as his right foot touched the ground it was about as useless as a CD to an iPod.

His left leg recognized the blunder before he did, and, as it had done too many times before, it caught the rest of his body with the help of his arms and Tom's bed post.

House said the F-word.

Tom sat up surprisingly fast for a man with a fever and disorientation. "Shit, are you okay?"

House was perplexed. Throughout this entire conversation, he'd been under the impression that he was talking with someone as cold and calculating as himself. With Tom's deliberate choices in words and conversation topic, it was understandable. However, those words were proof that not only was Tom Mix happy, but he was a human being. And right now, that human being wanted to know if House was okay.

Trouble was, House didn't know if House was okay. "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. He sat down again, breathing fast and squeezing the life out of his arm rest.

"Amazing how the only other person in here is also a chronic pain patient and yet you still think people believe you when you tell them you're fine."

House got his breathing under control and looked Tom in the eye.

"It's not a crime to feel pain," said Tom, dangerously close to rolling his eyes. He snorted, "And you thought _I_ was having a bad day."

For the first time in 20 minutes, House was able to turn something Tom said against him.

"If nothing works, then why bother telling the truth?"

Tom turned it back. "So you're not alone."

"We are alone. You can share poignancies with your family, friends, and coworkers all you like, but at the end of the day—at the end of you life, it's just you and your own head."

"So we don't feel alone. You tell one person, and that's doing something."

House didn't pretend that his entire outlook on life would be changed by a 20 minute lecture disguised as a friendly chat. If that were true, he'd walk out of Wilson's office every day a new man.

House didn't know it, but he regarded every conversation as a battle yet to be won, and though he was older, smarter, and wiser to the woes of the world…somehow, he was losing this one.

And this battle probably couldn't be won using his specialized methods of 'guerilla warfare.' Tom was immune to observation and manipulative quips, so House went at it the old fashioned way.

"Okie doke. We're going to play a little game."

"Like in 'Saw'?" asked Tom, not amused.

"I was thinking more like the Joker, but if you're still sad about Heath, then that's cool." House grinned out his best Cheshire cat impression. "I ask you a question. You answer it in two words or less."

Tom squinted. "What do I get if I play your game?"

"Dude, I'm saving your life. What else do you need?"

"Dude, I'm not dying!"

"Says you." House clicked his tongue. "You get my respect—the illusion of it," he corrected.

"Fine. Only, whenever I answer a question, you have to answer one too."

"Oops, sorry, I only do that with coma patients."

Tom looked confused. After all, it's unusual that one makes references to their own life. Tom didn't falter though. "Then I won't do it," he said.

House exhaled sharply. "One question. We each get to ask each other one question. Sound like a deal, Quicks?"

Tom smiled slightly and sat up straight. "Alright, do you—"

"NOOO!"

Tom jumped approximately two feet in the air. Approximately. "What—what's wrong?" he looked desperately at the source of the noise, House, who still sat calmly in the chair next to the bed.

"I get to go first," he said softly. Tom sunk back in his bed like a kid who's just seen Santa get stabbed.

House waited a long time before asking his question, as if watching the words in space before they reached his tongue. "What do you do on bad days?"

Tom seemed unaffected by the power this question held over House. "I get two words, right?"

House nodded instinctually, but then said "Whatever you want."

"I meditate."

A long silence filled the room like a noxious gas. Finally, House spoke. "You fucking kidding me?"

"Yes."

House was unaware of how big his eyes had gotten until he blinked in some odd form of relief.

Tom continued, "I do the same thing you do. I shut down. I lock myself away. I avoid all human contact and scream into a pillow. I do anything and everything to take my mind off the pain. An, like you, it normally doesn't work."

House sneered as though this somehow pleased him to hear. "So, no secret yoga poses? No magic pill you take while putting up this front of kindness and understanding?"

Tom laughed. "Like your magic pill?"

"Aww, now you've hurt Mr. Vico's feelings." House was thinking about reaching for Mr. Vico right about now, but didn't want to face the lecture from Wilson Jr. here.

"I'm not like you, Dr. House."

"Of course not. If you were like me, I'd like you."

"No you wouldn't." This time Tom was very serious. "The biggest difference between me and you is that I know, without a doubt, that I don't deserve to be in pain. You, on the other hand…you wonder. You think, 'Damn, I must have done something really wrong, or else God wouldn't punish me like this.'"

"I don't believe in God," said House, jumping on the rebound.

"But you believe in cause and consequence, don't you? You believe everything has a reason, right?"

"YES!"

House yelled. He never yelled at other patients. Other patients didn't deserve the effort. But at this moment, Tom Mix deserved the full attention of Gregory House.

House was standing again. "And that's why I know there's a reason you're happy. And that's why I'm trying to find what that reason is."

Tom sunk back into himself, but didn't stop talking. "And we're also kinda similar, Dr—"

"Cut the bullshit. You don't know me. This isn't some major epiphany. I'm trying to know you so I can save your life!"

Tom was blinking a lot now. "You know what it's like to wish you were dead…" His voice broke, and was now just a hoarse remnant of what it had been. "…because even if you went to the deepest, hottest circle of Hell, it couldn't possibly be worse than the Hell we experience on a daily basis."

House gave a humorless laugh. "And that makes you happy?"

"It makes me fearless, and that makes me happy."

"Do you know what Counterphobia is?" House sat back down.

"No."

"It's fear of fear, and it's what you've got beneath that charming Evel Knievel mask of yours. Now, if that diagnosis could solve disorientation and nausea…" House trailed off and stared at the floor.

After a minute, Tom spoke again. "What about Cherophobia?"

House looked up. "That's—"

"Fear of happiness."

House let the words sit on the room like a loaded gun on a table. No one knew who would fire first. It became a standoff, and silence was the ammunition.

They sighed audibly at the same time, displaying how much House and irony were screwing with each other.

"Do I still get to ask you a question?"

The voice was Tom's.

"Yeah," said House.

"Do you remember what it's like to ride a bike?"

House put his head down on the post of Tom's bed, debating whether or not to lie, when he felt shaking. Not the shivery, post-cold swimming pool shaking, but rather the San Francisco World Series earthquake kind of shaking.

His eyes darted to the now rapidly beeping monitor and then to Tom, who was seizing and currently didn't care whether House answered him or not.

"Crash cart!"

As the nurses raced to Tom's bedside and chaos began to choke the little room that surrounded him, House could not help but be relieved that he didn't have to answer Tom's question.

Not yet, anyway.


	5. See Dick Yell

**See Dick Yell**

"Need you in my office." House's torso was wrapped around the doorway of the lab in a manner that required as little movement as possible.

Thirteen poked her head up out of the maze of microscopes around her. "But I haven't finished running the tox screen."

"It's not acetaminophen poisoning."

"How do you know?"

"Because he had a seizure."

"Acetaminophen can cause—"

"He's not using acetaminophen."

Her eyebrows dropped down to meet the tops of her eyes in a look of disbelief. "Oh."

Kutner rushed by the glass doors mid-mission. House flipped his cane around, using the handle to catch Kutner by the wrist as he walked past, simultaneously avoiding any contact. "Need you in here."

"I thought you said we were going to your office," said Thirteen.

House found a chair and collapsed into it; the metal legs whined against the tile. "Nope," he said, "that whole floor's flooded. Guess we're staying here."

"We're…on the same floor, House."

"Hope you can swim." He paused and looked around as if suddenly noticing that not everyone was there. "Where's McManus and Fenster?"

"You mean Taub and Foreman?" asked Thirteen with an eyebrow cocked to show her lack of appreciation for this continued reference.

"But I thought Foreman was Keyser Soze?" said Kutner, totally devoted to the metaphor.

House tilted his head and said, "Not anymore. Keyser Soze merely represents the capacity in all of us to do evil. Now, this…" he said, indicating Tom's blood and whatever idiopathic ailments it contained, "…is Keyser Soze."

Thirteen replayed those words several times in her mind, focusing on the pitch of each syllable as the phrase rolled into her ears. This is because Thirteen was not astute by nature. It was something she worked on, something she practiced, as if a mastery of deduction could be acquired Sundays on the soccer field or in the library. Simply put, most things are simple. Some things simply aren't simple. And every once in a while, the simplicity and complications of a situation form a lovechild of sorts that is complicated in its simplicity and simply complicated at the same time. Needless to say, it's a rare occurrence.

But she had the idea that this was the kind of thing she was dealing with. Now she focused on what House had said. He called a disease evil. That was something a bleeding-heart doctor treating malaria in Africa would say. It wasn't the kind of thing often muttered by hopelessly curmudgeonly diagnosticians with addictions to drugs and brainteasers.

Then it dawned on her. House had just gestured at the blood to show it belonged to Tom. He had never mentioned which condition he was talking about: the one that was causing Tom's seizures and nausea, or the one that was causing his chronic pain.

Whichever one it was, House thought it was evil.

Her thoughts continued to float around, like leaves in a pool waiting to be skimmed.

This was all interrupted by the sound of the door closing as Taub entered the room.

"Finally," said House, eyeing Taub, "let's start."

"What about Foreman?" was the Taub's reply. "Seizure meant he had to hold off on the LP for a while."

"We don't need him for this. It's not MS, and all that LP will do is tell us he's got an infection. Question is what kind." He stood up and shuffled over to a whiteboard, the whiteboard being a sharpie next to a white wall. "Ideas, people. What explains disorientation, nausea, and now fever and convulsions?"

But nobody had any ideas. He wrote the symptoms on the wall, useless as a shopping list. Nobody spoke.

Except House, "Come on! I don't care if it's dumb just give me something to work with."

Taub shrugged a shoulder. "Acanthocytosis?"

House was pacing now. "No. Liver's fine, we'd see major damage by now."

Kutner spoke, "Maybe it's a tumor in the adrenal gland. Causes sweats, seizures—"

"MRI was clean. What else?"

Kutner tried again. "Adreanl gland hyperfunction then. The brain is secreting excess adrenaline."

Taub propped his chin on his hand."But what's causing it…besides a nonexistent tumor?"

And the room fell into silence once more.

But then House straightened up a bit as an intrigued, lopsided grin appeared on his face. He said, "What if we're missing a symptom?"

"What is it?" said Thirteen and Taub simultaneously, slightly horrified at the similarity of their thoughts.

"Pain."

Kutner was puzzled. "I thought he said he wasn't having—"

House nodded briskly, "That was his leg. We don't know if he's experiencing pain elsewhere."

"He would've mentioned it," said Thirteen. "He would've told us where it hurt."

House leaned his head forward, annoyed. "If you're in excruciating pain in one part of your body, your brain doesn't care about a tummy ache."

"If he were having stomach pains plus the nausea, disorientation, and seizures," whispered a squinty-eyed Kutner, "that's an acanthamoeba infection."

The rigidity of the air was relaxed in a collection of sighs.

"I'll start him on antibiotics," said Thirteen, turning towards the door.

House stopped her with his voice. "And take him off B12, too, now that we know it's not ACTH Deficiency."

"But it still could be. " said Taub, "The likelihood of B12 causing seizures is pretty low."

"_Don't_ think it's gonna help much now, though."

Taub gave a short nod of agreement. House sat back down, gasping inaudibly as the muscles in his thigh tensed. Thirteen turned to leave once more, but was greeted this time by Foreman.

"You're late," said House, hand on the top of his leg and not looking up. "That's three demerits and a detention, Doctor."

Foreman ignored House and looked to his team instead. "We've…got a situation. I finished the lumbar puncture. He's got some kind of infection, but now he's in intolerable pain."

House grinned humorlessly. _Small world_.

"Is it his stomach?" asked Kutner, not bothering to hide the slight thrill in his voice.

"No," Foreman paused, this time looking at House, "he says it's his leg."

House looked up. "Give him morphine."

"Already did." Foreman cocked an eyebrow. "No effect."

House stood up, teeth bared as his color faded even more, if that was possible. "Give him an epidural then."

Thirteen stepped in front of House, as if he wouldn't hear what she was about to say from five feet away. "We can't; he's just had an LP"

"Give it to him anyway."

Taub now took a bite of the bullet. "There's nothing we can do about his leg, House!"

"GIVE HIM THE GODDAMN SHOT!"

It was as if a volcano erupted in the lab and they were the only ones who noticed. There were five people in that room, and four of them were staring at the one who'd just yelled.

Maybe it's because those people were under the assumption that Gregory House never lost his cool—at least, not all the way. He got angry, he was ruthless, he yelled, but there was always an illusion of control that went with it, of the invincible father to a six year-old variety. It was control that somehow silently guaranteed everything was going to be okay.

The man that currently stood before them had no control.

Kutner swallowed, "Yeah…okay."

Thirteen stopped him on his way out, but didn't get the chance to speak. Kutner lowered his voice to a muffle and said, "I'll go lower than the lumbar puncture; it's less likely to damage the spinal cord…slightly."

Kutner left, but a deleterious silence remained.

House, in the meantime, hadn't moved. He thought he must've taken a step or something while yelling. There was some sort of slow-moving electric shock passing through him. It was pain, but the kind of pain that the body can only comprehend in colors and shades, like a burning pink and an icy blue, and everything dark and light in between. Just one fucked up rainbow of pain, shades he'd never seen or considered in blobs he wouldn't try to identify. The world became a Rorschach test, and every answer proved he was crazy.

The room began to rotate in oblong shapes, sometimes doubling back on itself, taking U-turns without signaling, speeding on the exit ramps, honking at pedestrians.

And now he was finding it hard to stay upright, but nobody seemed to notice, because everything seemed very far away, a distant echo of current time. He wanted to stay here, to look into this lava lamp and yell at the slow drivers ahead of him, but his legs began to wobble, not even his left leg able to support his weight.

He thought he was sitting in a chair, but felt his back hit the floor instead. He could no longer fight off an urge to blink—just once, he told himself, and then he'd be fine. He just needed to blink.

So he did, and kept his eyes closed.

The only color now was black.

----------------------------------

"Crap."

Kutner had missed. Luckily, he hadn't actually poked Tom with the syringe…yet.

"Hey, Tom, I need you to try and stay still while I give you this shot. It's an epidural, so don't freak out when you can't feel your legs."

"Okay," was the weak reply from Tom Mix.

But he continued to squirm, obviously in agony, his hands grasping at the sheets in something more like a life grip than a death grip.

Kutner gazed nervously out the glass door, watching the people pass by and wondering if they were watching him, or his writhing patient. They probably thought this was the Kevorkian ward, that what was happening here was simply the misstep of a mad scientist and his subject. He needed to stop watching so much television.

He looked back at Tom, who was still twisting, around trying to find a less painful position of the nonexistent variety. Kutner put a hand on Tom's back, trying to keep him steady as he readied the syringe for a second fly in.

"Tom, man, you gotta stop moving!" The rare sound of stress was on Kutner's voice.

Tom bit down on the sheet. This was becoming a WWII field amputation. "I'm…trying."

His words were a weird hybrid of speech and coughs, as if he were vomiting the sentence rather than saying it.

Kutner took a deep breath before throwing his weight onto Tom's side and plunging the needle deep into his lower back.

And then he let go, the entire process taking about five minutes of planning and .5 seconds of doing.

But Tom wasn't moving.

"Tom?"

Tom kept Kutner in suspense for one of those moments that the rest of the world would consider as insignificant as the rebound of a raindrop. For Kutner, that moment was about as significant as the difference between 'pregnant' and 'not pregnant.' When Tom finally did take a breath, Kutner could've been pregnant and not cared one bit. Before today, he'd never had an urge to hug a patient.

It was a long, post-hectic day breath. But a breath was a breath, and typically not a symptom of death. "Thank you," Tom whispered, closing his eyes.

Soon he'd be asleep, and if only just this once, Tom Mix was free.

--------------------------------------

"Crap!"

"Yeah, are you going to help us pick him up, or you going to stand there and look pretty?"

"No, I mean," said Chase, jogging closer to where Taub and Thirteen were futilely tugging on the sprawled, unconscious arms of a similarly unconscious House, "what the Hell happened?"

Taub spoke again. "We don't know, he was yelling at us and then…" he gestured towards the floor, making a plane crash sound effect that, for some reason, didn't quite seem appropriate.

"Well, is he breathing? Has he got a pulse?"

"We checked. All that's fine. He's stable," said Thirteen, sensing Chase's anxiety. "I think maybe he took a step awkwardly and passed out. "

Chase's eyes narrowed in a look of concern, or pity, or maybe comprehension. Thirteen didn't know him well enough to tell which. She continued, "I think he'll be fine, Chase. Really."

And Chase seemed to be satisfied with that answer. It was part of that illusion of control—as long as Gregory House wasn't dead, then he could probably pull through.

Taub rubbed the back of his neck. "We should…probably get a gurney, have him admitted."

"No way." Thirteen almost sounded scared. "What do you think he's going to do when he wakes up and he's suddenly commando with IV in the back of his hand? Who do you think he's going to blame?"

Chase frowned and looked at the back of her head. Sure, from this prospective they looked rather similar, but Thirteen lacked Cameron's delicacy when delivering hard truths. She lacked Cameron's delicacy in a lot of things, which was not necessarily a shortcoming.

Taub sighed, "Well, what do you think we should do?" He looked to Chase for an answer, as if being a former employee automatically meant he had seen this sort of thing before.

Chase thought about putting him in Wilson's office and nearly snorted when he thought about the repercussions of doing so.

"I think," he paused, trying to cover up some blatant improvisation, "we should get him in a wheelchair and put him in his office. It's not far, and it's the one place where he won't be _as_ pissed when he wakes up."

"Fine. Let's do it," said Thirteen.

Chase checked House over before Taub got the wheelchair, insuring that they weren't condemning the man to die a slow, bloody-brained death in his office because three idiots thought he was okay.

"Sure he's not dead?" said Taub, acerbic expression in full vigor as he toted the wheelchair in the room.

"Not yet," replied Chase, very glad to be saying so. "We should do this quickly though. I don't like the idea of him waking up before we get him to his office."

Nobody seemed to like that idea.

Taub and Thirteen grabbed House's arms, while Chase was left picking up his ex-boss' torso. He was thankful for House's unconsciousness.

House was lighter than they thought he'd be. That is to say that, for a man with a cane, he looked pretty sturdy. Then again, when being lifted by three people, anyone was bound to seem a little lighter.

And then, 15 seconds later, House was in the wheelchair. His hair was mussed in every direction but the right one and his mouth hung open, his head leaning at an odd angle. He looked no different than a drunken bum, complete with the raccoon eyes and ghost complexion.

Taub had whipped him around and began to wheel him out of the room a Chase stopped him with, "Wait."

Chase grabbed an old, forgotten bucket hat off the top shelf of the bookcase nearby and put it on House's head. "You think…maybe people won't recognize him?"

Taub laughed. Of course people would recognize him, and a stupid old bucket hat wouldn't change that. But House, the man whose idea of disguise was sunglasses and very occasionally a tie, seemed to subliminally beg for it with his expressionless face. And so, the hat stayed.

"Let me know how he's doing. I'll be in the ER." And with that, Chase turned and walked towards the door.

"You're not going to help us get him in his office?" said Taub, asserting more than asking.

Chase smiled. "He's your boss now."

As they walked down the hallway, a squeaky wheel on House's wheelchair groaned in protest. Thirteen looked at the back of House's a head for a long time. She hoped he was okay.

**----------------------------------**

"Crap."

Cuddy mopped at the coffee on the desk as it spilled over some files and onto the floor. Once her supply of napkins had been soaked through, as well as some bills and important-looking contracts, she finally looked up.

"What did you say, Foreman?"

"I said I think House should be taken off this case."

"And….why exactly do you think that?"

Foreman's brow furrowed as he dawned his best important voice. "He's in pain, he passed out during a differential, he—"

Cuddy stopped him. "He's solved cases in pain before."

Foreman noticed the hint of denial in her voice and sighed. "He's dismissing any condition that doesn't give his patient a happy ending. He gave the guy an epidural 10 minutes_ after_ a lumbar puncture."

Cuddy stood up, as if she gained authority by doing so. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"I—" he paused and tilted his head apologetically. "He yelled at us."

He watched as Cuddy pursed her lips and thought of a quip, quickly explaining, "It…wasn't like he normally does. I—I've seen House get angry and I've seen him be sad, but this was something else. I've never seen him be," Foreman paused, hoping his next word was the right one, "defensive."

Cuddy's eyebrows flatlined on her forehead skeptically.

"Cuddy, I can't have him treating this guy if he's not focused on the diagnosis."

Cuddy looked at her feet in thought briefly. She looked back at Foreman, arms crossed, a confident smile on her face.

"It's House, Foreman. He's not going to miss one because he cares about a patient, and he's definitely not going to miss one when he's in pain. This," she said, indicating the room as if it were the practice of medicine in general, "distracts him. If I take him off the case now, when he's in pain, then we'll be dealing with a bitter, Vicodin-addict with the maturity level of an angry teenager and a knack for making those around him miserable. Is that what you want?"

Foreman's wide-eyed expression told her she might have gone a little too far in House's defense, but that was okay. After all, she was the boss.

She sat back down again, taking a deep breath as she mulled over everything. "House stays on the case…but keep me up to date. I want to know if he does something weird…er than usual."

While Foreman wasn't entirely pleased, he was willing to compromise. "Okay, " he said, "will do. I hope you're right." The last sentence was more of a warning than a statement of support.

Cuddy watched as Foreman walked out of the room.

"Me too, " she said.


	6. See Dick Write

**See Dick Write**

His head hurt.

He opened his eyes, fully expecting to be greeted by about a thousand watts of fluorescent lighting beaming down on him, but as he looked around the room, the only light was coming from a gap between the window and the blinds, which allowed a sliver of the sun to trickle in.

House stared at the skinny white triangle on the floor where the light had collected, watching the tiny specks of dust rise and swirl with the currents of bad air conditioning.

The spit in his mouth had dried and felt gunky on the back of his throat, prompting him to cough as he sat up in his black chair.

This was definitely his office. But he didn't remember how he got here.

His legs hung awkwardly over the ottoman. His coat was in his lap. It had folded as he sat up, meaning that someone had put it over him like a blanket. Someone had brought him here.

Immediately he looked at his arms, checking every inch of them for punctures or bruises, any sign that he'd been drugged and—But wait. _Who'd do that? Who'd knock me out just to bring me back to my office?_

And then he looked at the white board. It wasn't hard, it'd been sitting right in front of him the whole time. It said:

_You passed out in the lab during the DDx so we brought you here._

And then he remembered. His leg. He took a step and—

"Shit," he said hoarsely.

And his whole team had seen it.

He tried to figure out who had written the note on the board. It wasn't Wilson or Cuddy, which was good, and it probably wasn't Kutner. Kutner would've left some side note, like "Hope you're okay, Dr. House" or "Call us if you need anything, Dr. House." "We left some Skittles for you, Dr. House." This meant it was either someone who didn't really care about him, or someone who wanted him to think that, leaving Foreman, Taub, or Thirteen.

The handwriting was girly. It was either Foreman or Thirteen.

He stood up slowly and gingerly tested his leg. He was surprised when it held up. He took a few slow steps over to his computer screen, using it a mirror as he looked himself over. He saw a slight lump on the side of his head, probably the result of his fall, and probably the source of his throbbing headache.

He palmed a couple Vicodin out of the bottle and swallowed them, walking back towards the white board. His leg felt better, at least better than before. In actuality, a shark attack would've felt better than before.

He remembered yelling. He hoped somebody had listened to him and given Tom the damn shot. He wanted to check, make sure it got done, but didn't feel like greeting the merry parade of are-you-okays that surely awaited him.

It was late now. Maybe 6 o'clock, judging from the sun in the window. He'd passed out around 2 or 3, meaning he'd been out for at least three hours.

He rolled left-footed in the computer chair to the front of the whiteboard. He gave up on figuring out who wrote the message and erased from the board. In its place he wrote:

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the worlds ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

"It's a little early to be quoting Elliot isn't it?"

House didn't need to turn around to know who it was. He narrowed his eyes. "It's a little early to be annoying me in my office isn't it?"

Wilson smiled, "Oh, it's never too early for that." He paused, allowing his smile to fade. "You know what I'm going to ask."

House turned and looked at him. "And you know what I'm going to answer. I'm fine."

"You passed out, House. Because of that," he said, pointing to House's leg as if it weren't really attached to his body, as if it were some alien parasite that'd evolved from simple abduction and was now sucking the life from House's veins. And in most respects, he was right. "Don't tell me you're fine."

"What would you rather me say? I'm okay? I'm excellent? I'm well? I think there's a thesaurus behind my desk."

"I want you to tell the truth!"

The words ate up the air between them like acid. Wilson let them.

House didn't say anything. He just watched, waiting for what Wilson would say next, but not caring. Anything but caring.

So Wilson spoke. "I want you to ask for help when you need it. I-I want to be like other peoples' best friends, where I know how to help you, I—"

But he stopped himself. He wasn't talking to someone else's best friend. He was talking to his best friend, and his best friend was Gregory House, and Gregory House telling the truth or asking for help was simply an unrealistic, almost unimaginable notion.

But when House finally did say something it wasn't _Then you should get a different best friend._

"I…do ask for help," House stared at him, the sun shining through the blue in his eyes like sea glass, "when I need it. The MRI, the extra prescriptions…" He didn't go on. He didn't really need to.

Wilson shook his head. "But now—"

"But now," said House, "I don't need it. I don't need your help, I don't need your pity, and I don't need your company." He sighed, "But, if there's comes a time when I need any of those things, I won't hesitate to call so you can buy me Chinese food and watch TV at my place. Deal?"

Wilson gave an exasperated chuckle as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Deal," he said and walked out of the room.

Taub, however, walked in. "House?"

House whirled around like a teenager who'd been caught using Rosy Palm and her five friends. "Don't you people knock?!" he said, doing his best imitation of pubescent angst.

"I…take it you're feeling better." It was a statement, not a question. Questions left room for a multitude of answers, and Taub liked to keep things simple. "You better come look at this."

"Can't. Busy," said House, erasing the whiteboard and writing something else.

"It's Tom," declared Taub.

House turned around. "I'll be there in a minute," he said. He finished what he was writing, didn't bother replacing the cap on the marker, and followed Taub out of the room.

The sun gave its dying winks at the reflective objects in the room—a few pens, the metal desk, the computer screen. Then it reflected off the whiteboard, bathing what was written there in copper light:

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

For once, the blinds were closed over their glass wall.

Taub and House were closing in on Tom's room, House's uneven gait almost falling in step with Taub's short stride.

Opening the door was like seeing what a rubbernecker at a crime scene would see if they stared long enough. Thirteen was very businesslike in checking Tom's vitals. Foreman was asking Tom questions—lots by the look of it. Tom looked confused as Hell, and Kutner, well, Kutner paced around the room, nothing passing his lips but the chant of "Crap, crap, crap."

Tom was the only one who seemed to notice House was there. "Hey, what's going on?"

House opened his mouth and then frowned, realizing that he didn't actually know. "Good question." He looked to Kutner for an answer, but got an "Are you okay?" in return.

"Fine," was the automated response.

Taub assumed the role of storyteller. "Kutner gave him an epidural four hours ago. It should've worn off by now."

"And it hasn't," concluded Foreman.

_Well, that answers two of my questions…_

House grabbed a pen out of Taub's coat pocket and walked over to the foot of the bed. "Tom, do you feel this?" He poked the tip of the pen into the big toe of Tom's left foot.

He flinched, "Yeah, why?"

House moved over near Tom's right leg. Tom tensed up, sensing danger.

House said, "You in pain?"

"No," said Tom, "I feel better."

"Leg feel better?"

Tom thought a moment, as if only just realizing that he wasn't in pain. "Yeah, it does."

House frowned, not sure what to make of it. He'd felt the other leg, so the epidural had worn off. He was about to be very intrigued or very jealous.

"This is going to hurt." Tom didn't move. He poked the pen into his right foot.

Nothing. No pain. No movement. Just nothing.

"Wiggle your toes, Quicks."

"I am." But he wasn't. And if he was, they weren't moving.

This set Kutner off again, his pacing growing faster and more annoying. "Oh crap, crap, crap, I paralyzed him. I knew I shouldn't have gone so low, I—"

House cut him off. "How much did you give him?"

"Um," he swallowed like a teacher's pet in detention, "50ccs. Enough for two hours."

"Then you didn't do this to him," said House.

Tom looked across the faces of his doctors, none of them really offering any help. "Wait, what does that mean?"

His eyes connected with Dr. House's. House squinted at him like the puzzle he was. "It means," he said, "that you're paralyzed and we have no idea why."

-----------------------------

House was seated at his computer when they walked in. Foreman behind Kutner, Kutner behind Taub, Taub behind Thirteen. They were penguins on parade.

Taub was the first to speak. "CAT scan was inconclusive."

"Okay," said House, his inattentiveness obvious. His eyes were latched on to the computer screen, his hand on absently placed on his right thigh, and his cane teetering dangerously close to the edge of the desk.

Thirteen glanced over his shoulder at the computer, expecting to see "Two Girls, One Cup" plaguing the hard drive with its vomit-inducing vulgarities, but instead found a single pop-up window, to which House was devoting his attention.

He looked up momentarily at Thirteen, then back at the screen as he said, "How am I supposed to win an Xbox 360 with you hanging over my shoulder like a dead goose?"

Taub spoke again, his lack of patience evident on his tone. "Did you hear what I said?"

House pushed away from his desk, allowing the wheels on his chair to roll a few feet before turning and facing Taub. "Look, you killed Frogger."

Taub sighed, "The CAT scan was inconclusive."

"Looks like you have to get another one."

Foreman edged closer to both of them. "_House," _he said in a tone dangerously resembling Lisa Cuddy's.

"_Foreman,"_ said House, inwardly impressed with his impersonation.

Kutner stepped closer. Now they were huddled around House's desk in an awkward semi-circle. "We did it with contrast. Odds are we won't get a different result."

House shot an icy glare at the floor, but nobody could tell if he was thinking…or just angry. It happened a lot.

He looked up again. "Unless you have a better idea—"

"We need to do a brain biopsy." The voice was Taub's. It was loud and sure and brimming with finality.

"No."

Taub didn't waver. "It might be our only shot at figuring out what's wrong with the guy. All of his symptoms are neurological, but our tests are inconclusive. We know it's an infection of some sort, we just don't know what kind. Antibiotics aren't working, we've been wrong every step of the way, and this is our only opttion, House."

"I said 'no,' which I believe translates to 'you're not taking out a piece of my patient's brain.'"

"Last time I checked, you weren't scared of doing what's necessary to get an answer," said Thirteen coolly.

House scratched the back of his ear as if the last comment hadn't affected him. "Last time I checked," he said, "doing a dangerous and invasive test before covering our bases wasn't necessary."

Foreman grunted, "Oh so that little stunt you pulled today, that wasn't dangerous?"

"It was _necessary," _said House, allowing the word to ooze out of his mouth like a noxious fume.

"So is this, House," whispered Thirteen, "you just care too much about this guy to see it."

House laughed humorlessly as he looked around the room. "So, this is what you all think?" he asked, expecting at least Kutner to back him up out of fear or admiration. But their faces were stoic—a silent 'yes.' "You think I care? I mean, it's an easy mistake, me giving hugs to complete strangers and all…"

Taub looked him squarely in the face and told him, "You care enough to let it cloud your judgment."

House began unconsciously rubbing his thigh. "My judgment? Just because I gave the guy an epi—"

"You could have killed him, House!" Foreman's eyes were locked on House's haggard face, unyielding.

"He was in pain!" House yelled, standing up and consequently knocking over his cane. Next to the dingy carpet, it didn't look quite as bitchin.'

House was growing pale again. "And now he's not. Know why? Because he's paralyzed! And if we don't figure out what's causing it, he really _is_ going to die. If that happens, then by all means, yell at me about sticking a syringe in his back, but until then, my patient, my call. You're not doing a biopsy."

Foreman left the room as soon as the tension in the room had died down enough to allow remotely normal action.

"Where are you going?" said House, his voice hoarse.

Foreman didn't turn around. "I'm not the one who's gonna have to deal with the consequences if you're wrong."

He was just a speck down the hallway. Trying to stop him would be like trying to stop a raindrop as it rolls down a window.

House sank to his knees in an attempt to reach his cane, but when he got there, it was already being offered to him by a pair of hands.

"Thank you," he said, not really knowing who had picked it up for him.

He was surprised to find Taub saying, "You're welcome."

Taub looked him up and down, as if he weren't already aware that House looked like shit. "You should really go home and rest, " he said, "You need it."

House gave him a dismissive nod as he caught the eye of Thirteen.

The three of them walked out wordlessly.

House was now unfortunately left without distraction. A new surge of pain tightened its grip on him. He couldn't think about the young man down the hall who was paralyzed in one leg, and would soon be paralyzed in two legs. All he could about was the fact that all of this, his best effort, wasn't good enough.

--------------------------

It was a beautiful thing to watch Wilson run.

He ran on his toes like a true track star, his stride long and precise, easier than anything in the world. His feet rebounded off the pavement with the agility of a much younger man, exponentially increasing his attractiveness to single and not so single passers by.

It was too easy to forget that Princeton Plainsboro was just yards away, and that this was just an unkempt football field where doctors pretended to disregard the chaos that proceeded without them inside the hospital walls.

Wilson's sneakers squeaked from underuse, still as stiff and shiny as the day he bought them. He increased his speed going into the turn, pushing hard to catch up with the woman in front of him.

She ran on her heels. It was a bad habit, but one hard to overcome after thirtysomething years. While still rather spry, she lacked the practice evident in Wilson's stride. He was a runner by nature. She was a runner by the desire to lose a few pounds and keep them off.

She was in earshot by the time Wilson came out of the turn.

"Hey, Lisa!" he called.

Cuddy slowed down to wait for him and matched his pace once he caught up. He'd called her by her first name, a hard feat to pull off while not sounding like a sleazebag sometimes. Wilson's voice, however, had that genuine quality about it that allowed him to say almost anything and make it sound "charming."

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," said Wilson, not wanting to start a conversation about the weather, but not an idea in sight of what to talk about.

Cuddy let him off the hook. "Freezing evening jogs on the track, I feel like I'm still in med school, " she said with a chuckle.

Wilson grinned. "Yeah, without the ornery, egotistical professors."

"Just ornery, egotistical doctors to deal with now," she said, almost sullenly.

Wilson looked around, thinking back. "He used to love this, you know."

"Running?"

"He says," Wilson squinted as if trying to recall the exact phrasing, "it's the closest you can get to people without having to interact with them."

Cuddy began to watch a few runners in the distance. He was right. They weren't talking to anyone. They weren't even making eye contact with one another.

She rolled her eyes. "Unbelievable, " she said.

"What?"

She shook her head smiling. "When was the last time you and I had a conversation that _wasn't _about House?"

"I…" started Wilson, frowning, "I'm not sure such an outlandish and bizarre thing has ever occurred."

They both laughed, only partially seeing the sadness of it.

Neither one of them talked for about a minute. They increased their speed, panting through their noses in an attempt to conceal to the other that they were in worse shape than they'd like to be. Cuddy was the first one to talk.

"I'm worried about him, Wilson."

Wilson sniffed, "You're always worried about him."

"This case is really messing with him."

Wilson sighed. "This case could be good for him."

"Since when do you know what's 'good for him' anymore?"

"Since I met his patient. The guy's just like House…if House were honest…and friendly…and not as smart."

Cuddy raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "So he's…not like House at all then," she said.

He carried on, "Well, House has obviously taken an interest in him. Maybe some of it will…rub off or something."

"Yes, I expect that will happen about the same time Hell receives a light snow."

Wilson slowed down a little to face Cuddy, wheezing in an effort to jog and talk at the same time.

"Cuddy, his patient—Tom, I was in the scan room with him earlier, and I asked him some questions."

"Like what?"

Wilson furrowed his brow, trying to explain his reasoning. "He's a chronic pain patient. I…asked him questions I knew House wouldn't answer."

"Like what goes through the mind of a drug addict?" she said with a smug grin.

"I asked him what it feels like."

Cuddy suddenly felt very ashamed of what she's just said. Of course, only Wilson would ask a patient something like that. There's a difference in the types of questions you ask when you actually care what a person has to say. It's the difference between "how are you?" and "who has most influenced your life?" Wilson always cared.

But along with the shame, she also felt a great amount of intrigue towards the answer. Finally, she felt as if she were about to get the truth.

"What'd he say?"

"Well, first he asked me if I wanted to hear the real version, or what he told his family and friends."

"There's a difference?"

Wilson seemed to struggle with finding a direct quote. "He said, he couldn't have his family knowing how bad it was…that it was hard enough for one person to face it, let alone everyone around him."

Wilson stopped running. "I asked for the real version."

Suddenly, Cuddy didn't want to hear the answer.

But Wilson still said it. "He said it feels 'like having electrified rail spikes heated to a thousand degrees, and then hammered into you leg'." He swallowed hard, looking down. "And that it's never stops."

She held it together for House's sake. Just barely, just enough so that her cheeks weren't salty with tears and she wasn't on the floor apologizing for every undercutting remark she'd made about House's pain.

Tom and House were not the same person. They were far from it, but she had a feeling that even half of what Wilson had just described would be enough agony for a lifetime.

"God…Wilson—"

"Cuddy!"

They both turned to face the speaker, who was jogging toward them few yards away. It was Foreman, looking slightly out of breath and obviously there for reasons other than a night run on the track.

"Yes?" said Cuddy, trying to hide the apprehension in her voice.

"You know how you told me to find you if House did something stupid?"

"Yes, " she said, now making no attempt to hide it.

Foreman sighed. "You better come with me."


	7. See Jane Curse

**See Jane Curse**

"You have a master key, right?" Foreman's voice was hurried, as were his steps as he led Cuddy to the lobby elevators.

Wilson had stayed on the track. Once it'd been established that House was physically okay, and that he was not lying in a pool of blood or a victim of spontaneous human combustion or in the process of being mauled by a tiger, Wilson really felt no need to go. And while his curiosity for what House had done was strong, his adoration of peace and quiet was a little bit stronger. And a lot less…complicated.

Cuddy was getting annoyed at all the mysteriousness, and the fact that Foreman wasn't saying anything. All of it, it couldn't possibly be that bad.

Stupid assumption. Of course it could be that bad, and of course, it probably was.

"Why are we going to the basement?" she asked.

Foreman sighed, looking upwards, "Because that's where the morgue is."

"Dr. Foreman, what the Hell is going on?"

Foreman scratched his temple as if preparing for a long story. "Our patient," he began, "presented with nausea and disorientation, which developed into seizures, fever, and right leg paralysis. It's obviously a neurological problem, and probably an infection." His voice grew duller as the story grew longer, a subliminal 'I told you so' and mental punishment all at once. Cuddy found it perhaps annoying than the absence of talking.

Foreman continued, his contempt of the situation quite apparent. "The MRI was negative and the CT scan was inconclusive. We put the guy on broad-spectrum antibiotics, but he's still getting worse. Therefore, the only logical thing left is to do a brain biopsy."

Cuddy still didn't see what this all had to do with the morgue…unless the patient was dead. And if that were the case, Forman should've been prettying up his story for the lawyers, not recounting it for the sake soon-to-be former boss. "What'd the biopsy reveal?"

"Nothing. We haven't done it."

"Why not?"

"House," he said with raised eyebrows, "won't let us."

From across the small lift, Cuddy eyebrows did a stirring impression of Foreman's.

He elaborated. "Said it'd be 'too dangerous.' He wants us to solve the case by sitting on our hands while he guesses. Meanwhile, there's a dying cripple in the other room."

Cuddy had never heard Foreman say "cripple" before. For some reason, it sounded wrong. Almost the equivalent of House saying "Cute handbag."

She pushed the feeling back into its motherly abyss. "Well now you have my permission. Do the biopsy."

"Can't," he said bitterly.

"Why not?"

"He'll fire me."

"Then I'll fire him. Do it."

"Still can't."

"Why?"

"He faked a page from you to every neurosurgeon in the hospital, telling them to help with an emergency in the morgue."

As they stepped off the elevator, Cuddy heard strange banging sounds coming from inside the morgue's doors, which were closed and locked. A chair leaned up against the left door for emphasis, which was in itself quite silly, seeing as the chair had wheels.

Foreman stopped in front of the door. "Then he locked them all in," he said.

It's a truly scary thing, when a person can get creative about ways to torment others.

"Oh God," said Cuddy, not nearly as amused as she'd be twenty years later when reciting this story to a niece or nephew.

She got the master key out from her coat pocket and unlocked the door, simultaneously unleashing a raging tide of curse words and threats from the masses of people inside.

After approximately fifteen minutes of apologizing to each and every enraged brain surgeon, the mess seemed to be resolved.

Of course, none of them wanted to touch the patient of the bastard who put them in there, let alone operate on the guy.

Cuddy started up the stairs, not bothering with the elevator and the grumpy old men in it. Foreman was fast at her heels, trying to keep a little distance as Cuddy leered into the space in front of her like a hungry predator.

"I'll kill him!" she fumed, "I'll wring the son-of-a-bitch's neck!" Her next few sentences were muffled threats and some garbled curse words as she repeated, "_Every damn neurosurgeon!"_

Foreman wanted to calm her down a little, at least so that her heart rate was no longer in the Incredible Hulk's danger zone, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Out of fear.

She swung open House's door as if helped along by gale force winds.

"HOUSE!"

House sat up, surprised, as if he had no clue what she could possibly be angry about.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his mock courtesy flooding the room.

Cuddy had to speak each word separately, for fear of busting open the dam and releasing her thunderous fury on her employee in the form of physical violence.

"What. Were. You. Thinking?!"

House pondered for a moment, before answering. "I'm sorry, okay? I was thinking that seeing Mamma Mia! seemed like a perfectly acceptable way to spend an afternoon. And I was right. Wilson and I were dancing in the aisles."

Outside in the hallway, a woman's scream could be heard all the way down at the nurse's station.

--------------------------

A minute later, Wilson stepped out of the elevator, sweaty running shoes still tied.

Cuddy was already in the room by the time Wilson got there. He stopped just out of House's field of vision to watch the conversation.

Despite the fact that half of the walls in House's office were made of glass, Wilson could only make out random syllables and words, mostly ones that began with 'F' and ended in 'uck.' Both were agitated, obviously. Cuddy moreso than House. He assumed Cuddy was yelling at her prized diagnostician about something immature, and unnecessary to anyone but House, and he was yelling back. Just…not as loudly. Wilson was probably right, considering this was the path most of their conversations took.

By the look of it, Cuddy hadn't mentioned her earlier conversation with Wilson on the track. And she probably wouldn't, as such tasks were typically reserved for _best_ friends. But again, it was simply too hard to tell.

So he opened the door. He slowly slunk into the office in an effort to not draw attention to himself. The idea in itself was rather ludicrous. House shot him a glance in acknowledgement of his entrance, but kept his attention on Cuddy.

Cuddy either didn't notice or didn't care—probably the latter, as extra bodies in a rather small office were pretty hard to miss.

She drove on, reciting her argument like a well-rehearsed speech spoken to a mirror. "Your patient is getting sicker. You tossing a damn tennis ball at the wall is not making you smarter. Do the biopsy, House. And after that, write a personalized letter of apology to every person you locked in that room." The second part was rather pointless, as House would never do it, but it did give the inner-Cuddy a smallish pat on the back, some reassurance that she at least attempted to keep House leashed.

House, who was holding on to that damn tennis ball as a way to anchor his pain rather than get an idea, spoke softly to her. His defeated tone was canceled out by the words he spoke. "A brain biopsy is extreme, and this case is not at a point where we can compromise this guy's future just because his idiot doctors can't figure out what's wrong with him. I need more time."

"But that's the point, House. You do this biopsy, and you _will_ know what's wrong with him. Yes, you will be taking a risk, but it's a risk you'd take with every single other patient who comes in here if it meant saving their life."

"His brain is all he's got!"

"He's not you, House!"

House opened his mouth to speak, but found the words would not come, that some bizarre entanglement thoughts up top had stripped him of his trademark articulation.

So Wilson spoke for him.

"You like him."

The words caught House with his hands in the cookie jar. Any other time, any other place, any other patient, and paragraphs denying this accusation would have burned up the air with incendiary wit. And yet there was no use in lying.

And yet, for one reason or another, up until the very moment this…accusation, was spoken aloud, House didn't know why it was true, merely that it was. It was a puzzle piece from a different puzzle, one House had yet to solve, until now.

"He…never lies." House sighed, then he chuckled slightly, throwing as much weight off what he was about to say as humanly possible. "He knows what's real, knows limitations, but he doesn't just stumble through the day. He's…" House frowned, looking for words far more expensive than fifty cents. When one couldn't be found, he simply said, "happy."

Wilson and Cuddy exchanged looks, but said nothing.

"And I respect that," said House.

It was now time to start arguing once more. "And I'm not gonna go playing Capture the Flag in his brain, not when there's still time to find out what's killing him!"

"House," Cuddy began softly, "there is no time. Soon he's gonna be in pain. You know what that's like more than anyone."

She did it. She played the cripple card, because that's what it took to get House to listen.

"Do the biopsy, or you're off the case, House."

"Get out of my office."

"You broke your own rule House; you're not being objective!" Cuddy was pleading now.

Wilson stood in the corner and looked at his feet. He had no more leverage to use. He might as well have been invisible.

"GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!" he slammed his fist down and stood up, a wince firmly planted on his pale face.

Cuddy stuttered the beginnings of something before turning around, hiding the look of pity on her face. Wilson sighed, finally speaking. "Everybody lies," he said.

It hadn't been a dig at House's patient, nor House. It was just a statement—an expression really, that had spread throughout the hospital as a peephole into the mind of Greg House. Hell, it wasn't even preachy, not the way Wilson said it. Truly, despite all the meaning you could fling in or out of it, they were just words.

But to House it was none of these things. It was a clue.

The lower part of his eyelids scrunched up in a purposeful tick and he squinted at something unseen on the floor. His brow furrowed; his eyes zipped back and forth as if reading the pages of his own mind.

And then he looked up. His faced relaxed.

"I borrowed this. We're even," he said, placing a pager in Cuddy's hand.

Without another word from anybody, he grabbed his cane and stumbled out of the room. Neither Cuddy nor Wilson followed him.

---------------------------

House walked into the lab with more zest than he'd had all day. His team eyed him curiously. He rarely stayed until 5pm. It was now 7:30.

"Who did Tom's surgery? After he broke his leg."

"Uh," said Thirteen, nose deep in Tom's file, "Dr. Kevin Brenton."

House's eyes narrowed calculatingly. He began to walk closer, playing out the scenario in his head before telling his team what to do. "Go MRI his head."

Kutner sat up. "We already did. It was negative."

"Do it anyway."

The three stood up slowly and began walking towards Tom's room.

House flicked a pill in his mouth, sat down at the lab table, and waited.

----------------------------

By 8pm they were back, films in hand. He took the scan from Taub's hands and put it up to the light.

"That's…impossible," said Kutner. "We just scanned him this morning."

They all stared at the scan for a least a minute, until House's arm was sore from holding it, and his eyes were dry from staring at it.

Taub spoke first, switching the focus in his eyes as he tried to count the many lesions that now dotted the MRI. "How long?"

"Three months," said Thirteen, "maybe four."

House lowered the scan and stared ahead.

"Shit," he said.


	8. See Dick Smile

**See Dick Smile**

House was leaning against the balcony wall between his office and Wilson's. He almost wished the moon were full. Then Wilson would know he was out there.

It was a dark night, chilly and starless, and he doubted Wilson would look up from his work, let alone notice the batman imposter outside who was drowning in self-pity.

Drowning in self-pity. The phrase was too perfect for Wilson to resist. And truth be told, House didn't really care whether Wilson looked up or not; he didn't care if the man walked out to join him on the balcony. He didn't care if his best friend talked to him.

But it would be nice.

House didn't regret saying the things he said earlier, and even now he didn't _need_ Wilson's company. He didn't _need_ anything, and neither did Wilson. But as long as he was standing out there not being needy, he might as well have someone else there to not give him anything, and Wilson seemed as good a man for that as anyone. But again, House didn't really care.

It seems unusual that the people who are the most astute when it comes to the lives of others frequently lack that same insight into themselves. Sometimes, they need other people to hold up a mirror.

Wilson slid open the glass door of his office and walked out on the balcony. He sauntered over to where House was, matching his pose against the wall, putting his hands on top of the ledge, leaning forward, and putting all of his weight on his left leg as his right apathetically kissed at the ground behind him.

Neither one of them spoke for a long time. House wasn't thinking about Wilson being there, and Wilson wasn't thinking about House being there. They were just thinking, comfortable enough with each other that the silence was natural.

Wilson thought about his day, the fact that he'd skipped dinner and now would have to order pizza at home or pick up Chinese. House was thinking about the time that had passed since Tom was admitted. It was only 8:23, less than ten hours from meeting him the clinic.

But those ten hours seemed so long ago.

Wilson sighed, revealing that he was about to speak.

"What's up?" he said, not expecting an answer like _"not much, you?"_

"Tom's dying," replied House, not looking at him.

Wilson nodded. "You gonna tell him?"

House didn't answer.

"You want me to tell him? I mean, if you're not feeling—"

"No," said House, "I'll tell him. He should hear it from me."

Wilson shrugged, "You're the one who says it won't matter who he hears it from. It won't make him die slower if that person is you."

House paused for a long time, trying to properly articulate at least one thought, or something like a thought, or anything at all. "He should know that his life mattered…even if it didn't. He should know that his pain—"

"He's not the one who needs to know that, House."

House tried to swallow, but found that an alien lump in his throat prevented him from doing so.

He couldn't remember what it felt like, to be on the verge of tears. His throat was sore, and he blamed it for having to start his sentence several times before feeling confident enough to finish it.

"You're right," he said, "But it matters to me."

House turned to walk away and couldn't. Instead, he stayed there, staring at a moon that wasn't there, thankful for its absence as the corners of his eyes began to burn.

"I thought that if I…" he said, blinking repeatedly as he looked up, his voice hoarse and grainy, "…I don't know what I thought."

And he turned, making his way back to his office. He was already at the handle when Wilson spoke.

"House."

House looked back, but didn't grant Wilson eye contact. Instead he stared downward, like he was ashamed.

Wilson said, "Just because you care…it doesn't make you weak."

"But it does make me stupid." He slid the door open and hobbled inside, sliding it behind him quickly.

His office was dark with the exception of the occasional headlight that would blink whenever a car passed the building. His jacket was where he left it on the ottoman, the wrinkles in the leather chair still present from his earlier snooze. The whiteboard, too, was how he left it, Robert Frost's words flashing at him with every passing vehicle.

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

He grabbed his jacket and began waking towards room 109.

He opened the door slowly, partly hoping that Tom would again be asleep, mostly hoping that through virtue of a loud-mouthed lab technician Tom already knew, that he could just turn around and go home.

-----------------------------------------------

"That's a bitchin' cane," said Tom, who was not asleep.

"I know," said House with an insincere look of pride. He placed said bitchin' cane on the foot of Tom's bed. He brought the chair over to the side of the bed, but didn't sit down.

"Did you ever read _Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening_ by Robert Frost?'

Tom thought for a second. "In high school, why?"

"Do you remember what it's about?"

Tom smiled. "…Isn't it about stopping by woods on a snowy evening?"

House nodded absently. "You'd think so, but no."

He sat down, leaning closer to Tom. "It's about contemplating suicide, then deciding not to go through with it. "

House started reciting it, tugging the marrow out of every syllable and keeping his eyes on Tom. Tom was more concerned with how Dr. House had come to know it by heart.

"Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; he will not see me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near, between the woods and frozen lake, the darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake to ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."

Despite his awe, Tom chuckled a little after House had finished. "I never took you for a poetry guy," he said.

"I'm not," replied House, stoically.

"Then why are you—"

"You're dying."

House always said that it was the lucky ones who got to hear those words. Because it's only after you know, only after someone tells you, that you really know what kind of person you are. Whether you nod, cry, or hug your doctor, that's the truest to yourself you'll ever be. Huggers will always hug, criers will always cry, and nodders will always nod.

Tom Mix was a nodder.

He blinked a lot, obviously trying not to be a crier. "Because—because of the paralysis?"

"Because you lied," whispered House, eyes on the floor. "You're not happy."

"Yes…I am."

House let his eyes meet Tom's. He had brown eyes. There was something sharper about them, though. They weren't like Wilson's dumb mutt eyes; they were like hawk's eyes without the meanness of their reputation.

"You tried to kill yourself. Four years ago, right after the pain started."

"I—"

But House didn't let him talk. "Your attending's name was Kevin Brenton. He used to do research for Multiple Sclerosis, helped develop a couple experimental drugs. My guess is, he left a bottle of pills on the end table one day. You took the whole bottle, thinking they were Vicodin. You thought that the Vicodin just didn't work, that nothing would work…I mean," House's eyes narrowed, "you took an entire bottle of a narcotic, and nothing happened. Thing is, that wasn't Vicodin. That was an MS drug called Tysabri, which didn't affect you then…but has since been breaking down the nerve fibers at the top of your spinal cord."

Tom swallowed, asking, "But, people, people can have surgery on their spinal cord. They don't die from it."

House too, swallowed, and elaborated. "Most people, have a virus that lives in their spinal cord. It's called the JC virus, and when the myelin sheath that covers your nerve cells breaks down, as it did in your case, the virus enters the brain, and kills you. It's called Progressive Multifocal Leukoencephalopathy. Takes a long time to develop, short time to kill."

House had always taken Tom as a crier. And there was nothing wrong with being a crier. True, House loved to remind himself that crying was selfish and pointless and altogether dumb (this typically occurred when he himself came close), but as far as reactions to your impending doom go, it was certainly understandable.

And yet Tom continued to nod. "How…long do I have?" he said.

"About three months."

"I'm not—"

House shook his head. "You don't have to tell me why you did it."

Tom smiled. "I wasn't. I was just going to say that I'm not scared."

"Why would you be? Think of all the pity sex you'll get now. And I bet you got tons before."

He chuckled for a minute, then frowned thoughtfully. "I'd forgotten what it's like," said Tom, "to not be in pain. Three months of this…I'm okay with that. Does that make me a coward?"

"No," House said.

Paperback summaries of life and love buzzed over his head, complete with five-syllable taglines and the utter drivel they contained. Nothing worth saying, though.

Tom cleared his throat and said, "You never answered my question."

"I did, but you were seizing. Too bad."

"What was the answer?"

House wanted to lie. He wanted to lie more than he wanted good sex and a clapper installed in every wing of the hospital. But at the moment, none of those options particularly conceivable.

"Yeah," he said, "I remember how to ride a bike."

Tom looked at the floor and squinted, as if trying to imagine it. "What's it like?"

House frowned. "It's like…you ever driven a motorcycle?"

Tom laughed, "No,"

"Get one," said House, "soon."

Tom eyed him skeptically. "Where do you put your cane?"

"You don't wanna know."

House flipped a pill through the air dramatically and caught it on his tongue. He then stood up, took two steps towards the door, and one step back. "Of course, with a big honking thing like that," he said, indicating Tom's forearm crutch, "you'd never get anywhere. Here, better take mine."

House presented Tom his flame cane with the formality of an Eagle Scout. He limped heavily over to the wall and grabbed Tom's crutch, adjusting it to his height.

"Wow, thanks, I mean—"

"I figure maybe you'll look less dorky. I mean me, I can make anything look cool, but it's a rare gift, Quicks."

"Bye, House," said Tom.

But House was already out the door.

----------------------------------------------

The biggest difference between a car and a motorcycle is that in a car, you can hear your own thoughts. That's what scared House the most as he puttered along the highway in his 11 year-old Volvo.

The car's heater had stopped working about three years ago, and he couldn't remember a time when 'turning on the A/C' meant something other than rolling down the window and sticking his head out like a dog.

And still, getting cut by the exposed springs in the driver's seat was better than picking up a mangled appendage and tossing it over the other side of a Honda Repsol. At least when that appendage was responding to every slight shift of the feet by shooting angry injections of rattlesnake venom up his spine.

But at least on the motorcycle…he didn't have to think.

He spent most of his ten-minute trip home pretending to think about trivial things, things like Hendrix posters and Google and the unopened electric bill on his kitchen table. Things that wouldn't give him grief as he lay awake in bed that night.

But as he passed the forgotten tire tread left by trucks passing through, the skid marks from where people had fallen asleep at the wheel and swerved their way back on the road just in time, and the other skid marks, where it looked as though they hadn't been so lucky, he couldn't deny that he was thinking about how easy it would be.

Nobody would ever assume. They'd just think what he thought, staring at those skid marks: House fell asleep at the wheel.

Tom Mix said that he wasn't scared, that he'd had enough of the pain and the fatigue. House suspected maybe Tom Mix had had enough of people as well.

House coaxed the little car over the edge of the white line, his heart beating faster with anticipation.

But House didn't do it. He tilted the wheel and the car drifted back towards the center of the lane again.

Because, Gregory House was not like Tom Mix. Gregory House was scared. And while Gregory House had also had enough of the pain, and most of all the people, Gregory House had not had enough of life. Not yet, anyway.

He opened his front door and his bottle of Vicodin at the same time. It was multitasking at its finest. He put the bottle on the table by the door after swallowing a pill, flinging his keys somewhere where he'd psychically find them the next morning. He was tired, but it was only 9:30. He tossed his jacket at a hanger on his closet and missed, not bothering to pick it up. He flopped down on the couch and pressed the Power button on the remote, his left shoe scuttling across the floor after he kicked it off.

He leaned over his right leg and began to carefully untie his shoelace. He made the laces as loose as possible, and then began to remove the shoe with the care often exerted by New York's bomb squad.

He had to scroll down his Tivo a ways before finding it. Under the title were the names Kevin Spacey and Benicio Del Toro, and four stars side by side.

He pressed play, but paused it before the MGM lion roared.

The phone was on the end table next to the couch. He picked it up and dialed a number with robotic speed. Then, he pressed "Talk." He wasn't quite sure why.

"Hey, Wilson, I'm watching _The Usual Suspects_ right now, and I was wondering if…" he chuckled, knowing that Wilson probably wouldn't come over unless he used the exact phrase he'd been trying to avoid. "I…need your company. I'll order pizza. Bring your wallet. I'll see you in ten minutes."

Wilson hadn't said "yes," but he knew that in ten minutes time, there'd be a knock on the door. He knew that in ten minutes time, everything would be just the way it always was, and that was okay with him.

He put his feet up on the coffee table and slouched back in the cushions a little.

For the first time in a long time, he smiled.

His leg didn't hurt so much anymore.


End file.
